


Piecing It Together

by Dana



Category: Life on Mars (UK)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/No Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-01
Updated: 2014-03-01
Packaged: 2018-02-28 14:15:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2735669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dana/pseuds/Dana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gene's needs to piece it back together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Piecing It Together

**Author's Note:**

> Another old piece of fiction, back in my weekly drabble/ficlet request thing days, some Gene pov with a dash of something else at the end. I meant to come back to this and do more with it, only that never happened. Guess it's a possibility though.

He rubs his fingers together – damp, slightly tacky, the consistency of cheap glue. He's sitting in the dark and the back of his head hurts, and he doesn't actually remember what happened to have had him end up in this place. He's sitting up – hadn't been, at first – and it's pitch black so his eyes can only adjust so much. Which means: not much at all.

The cuffs rattle, the jangle of a mournful tune – he tugs on them and scowls, checks on the back of his head once again, more slightly damp blood, which suggests an old enough wound. It's also the only place his body is aching, which makes enough sense given how they got the drop on him.

So he's on his knees in the dark, and he gropes blindly – finds one wall, and then another. At about that point, he tries to pull himself to his feet, only to wobble and then crash back down. He's suddenly reminded of a tire iron, and he bloody well hopes that's not what they used on him. Doesn't need his brains leaking out the back of his skull, thank you very much.

Okay, so, standing makes him dizzy, which isn't a good thing. He continues groping in the darkness, finds another wall and then another – all cool hard stone, and then, cold hard steel. An old door – realisation registers slightly slower than he'd have liked – and he mutters curses in the darkness, dragging his hands and looking for a door handle, a lever, a latch – anything. Bastards got the better of him, hit him over the head, dragged him here and left him in the dark. The biggest indignity being that they used his own cuffs.

Piecing it together, he can do this. He's missing something big still, though. Something bigger than the bloody awful pain in the back of his head. He pats down his coat, scowling – bastards even took his flasks. Wait, no, they missed that one. He fishes it out and, awkwardly, twists off the caps, curses when he drops it down into the darkness. Sighs, takes a drink instead, and shifts himself until he's sitting against the wall, beside what he thinks is the door.

Probably shouldn't close his eyes, but it's dark already – Sam would, Sam... Sam would... Sam would fuss at him, but Sam's not here, is he? If he was, he'd no doubt be complaining non-stop – that Gene shouldn't be drinking, Gene shouldn't be resting, shouldn’t do this and shouldn't do that. Actually... given how quiet it is, a bit of constant complaining might do at least a little to dull the constant tedium, in that special Tyler way.

Gene goes to take another swig, and hesitates – looks off to the side, thinking. And thinking makes his head hurt (kind of the way Sam makes his head hurt, only there's typically less blood involved). Sam's not here. But Sam should be here. He remembers the tire iron, but before that, Sam had been there, too. Hadn't he? Gene's almost sure.

Another piece of the puzzle slots into place, and it almost makes sense. Gene tries to push himself to his feet, but he's wobbling again and loses his footing, and slides back down. The light blinds him as the door opens, and the final piece settles in – rather more, is thrown in, and he can't think enough to even act.

'Hope you don't mind we've kept you waiting, Hunt. Brought you a friend though. Now play nice.'

He blinks and looks sideways, knows that voice, but the face is bleeding out light and he raises his hands to shield his eyes. He's suddenly aware of a need to move, to get out of here – but the thought doesn't come soon enough, and he's sluggish as it is, and the door slams shut and it's dark all around.

'Bloody hell.' He takes another drink, ends up dropping the flask because his fingers don't want to work. 'Sam?'

A cough, a low groan. 'Guv.'

That's the puzzle piece he was missing. Sam had been there all along, after all – they'd gotten the drop on him, just as well as they had on Gene.


End file.
